University of Virginia Library

ACT SECOND.

SCENE I.

A room in Walpole's house. Pictures on the wall. A large table with books, papers, &c.
Walpole and Veasey seated.
WALPOLE.
And so Nithsdale's escaped! His wife's mantle and gown;
Well—ha, ha! let us hope he's now out of this town,
And in safer disguise than my lady's attire,
Gliding fast down the Thames—which he'll not set on fire.

VEASEY.
All your colleagues are furious.

WALPOLE.
Ah yes; if they catch him,
Not a hand from the crown of the martyr could snatch him!
Of a martyr so pitied the troublesome ghost
Would do more for his cause than the arms of a host.
These reports from our agents, in boro' and shire,
Show how slowly the sparks of red embers expire.
Ah! what thousands will hail in a general election
The wild turbulent signal for—

VEASEY.
Fresh insurrection.

WALPOLE
(gravely).
Worse than that;—Civil War!—at all risk, at all cost,
We must carry this bill, or the nation is lost.

VEASEY.
Will not Tory and Roundhead against it unite?

WALPOLE.
Every man has his price; I must bribe left and right.
So you've failed with Bellair—a fresh bait we must try.
As for Blount—

Enter Servant.
SERVANT.
Mr Blount.

WALPOLE.
Pray admit him. Good-bye.

(Exit Veasey).

SCENE II.

Walpole, Blount.
BLOUNT.
Mr Walpole, you ask my advice on the dues
Which the City imposes on coal.

WALPOLE.
Sir, excuse
That pretence for some talk on more weighty a theme,
With a man who commands—

BLOUNT
(aside).
Forty votes.

WALPOLE.
My esteem.
You're a patriot, and therefore I courted this visit.
Hark! your country's in danger—great danger, sir.

BLOUNT
(drily).
Is it?

WALPOLE.
And I ask you to save it from certain perdition.

BLOUNT.
Me!—I am—

WALPOLE.
Yes, at present in hot opposition.
But what's party? Mere cricket—some out and some in;
I have been out myself. At that time I was thin,
Atrabilious, sir—jaundiced; now, rosy and stout,
Nothing pulls down a statesman like long fagging out.
And to come to the point, now there's nobody by,
Be as stout and as rosy, dear Selden, as I.
What! when bad men conspire, shall not good men combine?
There's a place—the Paymastership—just in your line;
I may say that the fees are ten thousand a-year,
Besides extras—not mentioned. (Aside.)
The rogue will cost dear.

BLOUNT.
What has that, sir, to do with the national danger
To which—

WALPOLE.
You're too wise to be wholly a stranger.
Need I name to a man of your Protestant true heart
All the risks we yet run from the Pope and the Stuart?
And the indolent public is so unenlightened
That 'tis not to be trusted, and scarce to be frightened.
When the term of this Parliament draws to its close,
Should King George call another, 'tis filled with his foes.

BLOUNT.
You pay soldiers eno' if the Jacobites rise—

WALPOLE.
But a Jacobite house would soon stop their supplies.
There's a General, on whom you must own, on reflection,
The Pretender relies.

BLOUNT.
Who?

WALPOLE.
The General Election.

BLOUNT.
That election must come; you have no other choice.
Would you juggle the People and stifle its voice?

WALPOLE.
That is just what young men fresh from college would say,
And the People's a very good thing in its way.
But what is the People?—the mere population?
No, the sound-thinking part of this practical nation,
Who support peace and order, and steadily all poll
For the weal of the land!

BLOUNT
(aside).
In plain words, for Bob Walpole.

WALPOLE.
Of a people like this I've no doubts nor mistrustings,
But I have of the fools who vote wrong at the hustings.
Sir, in short, I am always frank-spoken and hearty,
England needs all the patriots that go with your party.
We must make the three years of this Parliament seven,
And stave off Civil War. You agree?

BLOUNT.
Gracious heaven!
Thus to silence the nation, to baffle its laws,
And expect Selden Blount to defend such a cause!
What could ever atone for so foul a disgrace?

WALPOLE.
Everlasting renown— (aside)
and the Paymaster's place.

BLOUNT.
Sir, your servant—good day; I am not what you thought;
I am honest—

WALPOLE.
Who doubts it?

BLOUNT.
And not to be bought.

WALPOLE.
You are not to be bought, sir—astonishing man!
Let us argue that point. If creation you scan,
You will find that the children of Adam prevail
O'er the beasts of the field but by barter and sale.
Talk of coals—if it were not for buying and selling,
Could you coax from Newcastle a coal to your dwelling?
You would be to your own fellow-men good for nought,
Were it true, as you say, that you're not to be bought.
If you find men worth nothing—say, don't you despise them?
And what proves them worth nothing?—why, nobody buys them.
But a man of such worth as yourself! nonsense—come,
Sir, to business; I want you—I buy you; the sum?

BLOUNT.
Is corruption so brazen? are manners so base?

WALPOLE
(aside).
That means he don't much like the Paymaster's place.
(With earnestness and dignity.)
Pardon, Blount, I spoke lightly; but do not mistake,—
On mine honour, the peace of the land is at stake.
Yes, the peace and the freedom! Were Hampden himself
Living still, would he side with the Stuart or Guelph?
When the Cæsars the freedom of Rome overthrew,
All its forms they maintained—'twas its spirit they slew!
Shall the freedom of England go down to the grave?
No! the forms let us scorn, so the spirit we save.

BLOUNT.
England's peace and her freedom depend on your bill?

WALPOLE
(seriously).
Thou know'st it—and therefore—

BLOUNT.
My aid you ask still?

WALPOLE.
Nay, no longer I ask, 'tis thy country petitions.

BLOUNT.
But you talked about terms.

WALPOLE
(pushing pen and paper to him).
There, then, write your conditions.

(Blount writes, folds the paper, gives it to Walpole, bows, and exit.)
WALPOLE
(reading).
“'Mongst the men who are bought to save England inscribe me,
And my bribe is the head of the man who would bribe me.”
Eh! my head! That ambition is much too high-reaching;
I suspect that the crocodile hints at impeaching.
And he calls himself honest! What highwayman's worse?—
Thus to threaten my life when I offer my purse.
Hem! he can't be in debt, as the common talk runs,
For the man who scorns money has never known duns.
And yet have him I must! Shall I force or entice?
Let me think—let me think; every man has his price.
(Exit Walpole.)

SCENE III.

A room in Mrs Vizard's house. At the back a large window opening on a balcony. In one angle of the room a small door, concealed in the wainscoting. In another angle folding-doors, through which the visitors enter. At each of the side scenes in front, another door.
Enter Mrs Vizard.
MRS VIZARD.
'Tis the day when the Jacobite nobles bespeak
This safe room for a chat on affairs once a-week.
(Knock without.)
Ah, they come.

Enter two Jacobite Lords, and Nithsdale disguised as a woman.
1st JACOBITE LORD.
Ma'am, well knowing your zeal for our king,
To your house we have ventured this lady to bring.
She will quit you at sunset—nay, haply, much sooner—
For a voyage to France in some trusty Dutch schooner.
Hist!—her husband in exile she goes to rejoin,
And our homes are so watched—

MRS VIZARD.
That she's safer in mine.
Come with me, my dear lady, I have in my care
A young ward—

1st JACOBITE LORD
(hastily).
Who must see her not! Till we prepare
Her departure, conceal her from all prying eyes;
She is timid, and looks on new faces as spies.
Send your servant on business that keeps her away
Until nightfall;—her trouble permit me to pay.

(Giving a purse.)
MRS VIZARD.
Nay, my lord, I don't need—

1st JACOBITE LORD.
Quick—your servant release.

MRS VIZARD.
I will send her to Kent with a note to my niece.
(Exit Mrs Vizard.)

1st JACOBITE LORD
to NITHSDALE.
Here you're safe; still, I tremble until you are freed;
Keep sharp watch at the window—the signal's agreed.
When a pebble's thrown up at the pane, you will know
'Tis my envoy;—a carriage will wait you below.

NITHSDALE.
And if, ere you can send him, some peril befall?

1st JACOBITE LORD.
Risk your flight to the inn near the steps at Blackwall.

Re-enter Mrs Vizard.
MRS VIZARD.
She is gone.

1st JACOBITE LORD.
Lead the lady at once to her room.

MRS VIZARD
(opening door to right of side scene).
No man dares enter here.

NITHSDALE
(aside).
Where she sleeps, I presume.

(Exeunt Mrs Vizard and Nithsdale.)
2d JACOBITE LORD.
You still firmly believe, tho' revolt is put down,
That King James is as sure to recover his crown.

1st JACOBITE LORD.
Yes; but wait till this Parliament's close is decreed,
And then up with our banner from Thames to the Tweed.
(Knock at the street-door.)
Who knocks? Some new friend?

Enter Mrs Vizard.
MRS VIZARD
(looking out of the window).
Oh! quick—quick—do not stay!
It is Blount.

Both LORDS.
What!—the Roundhead?

MRS VIZARD
(opening concealed door in the angle).
Here—here—the back way.
(Exit Mrs Vizard.)

1st JACOBITE LORD
(as they get to the door).
Hush! and wait till he's safe within doors.

2d JACOBITE LORD.
But our foes
She admits?

1st JACOBITE LORD.
By my sanction,—their plans to disclose.

(Exeunt Jacobite Lords just as enter Blount and Mrs Vizard.)

SCENE IV.

Mrs Vizard, Blount.
MRS VIZARD.
I had sent out my servant; this is not your hour.

BLOUNT.
Mistress Vizard.

MRS VIZARD.
Sweet sir! (Aside.)
He looks horridly sour.

BLOUNT.
I enjoined you, when trusting my ward to your care—

MRS VIZARD.
To conceal from herself the true name that you bear.

BLOUNT.
And she still has no guess—

MRS VIZARD.
That in Jones, christened John,
'Tis the great Selden Blount whom she gazes upon.

BLOUNT.
And my second injunction—

MRS VIZARD.
Was duly to teach her
To respect all you say, as if said by a preacher.

BLOUNT.
A preacher!—not so; as a man she should rather
Confide in, look up to, and love as—

MRS VIZARD.
A father.

BLOUNT.
Hold! I did not say “Father.” You might, for you can,
Call me—

MRS VIZARD.
What?

BLOUNT.
Hang it, madam, a fine-looking man.
But at once to the truth which your cunning secretes,
How came Lucy and you, ma'am, at night in the streets?

MRS VIZARD.
I remember. Poor Lucy so begged and so cried—
On that day, a year since—

BLOUNT.
Well!

MRS VIZARD.
Her poor mother died;
And all her wounds opened, recalling that day:
She insisted—I had not the heart to say nay—
On the solace religion alone can bestow;
So I led her to church,—does that anger you?

BLOUNT.
No!
But at nightfall—

MRS VIZARD.
I knew that the church would be dark;
And thus nobody saw us, not even the clerk.

BLOUNT.
And returning—

MRS VIZARD.
We fell into terrible danger.
Sir, the Mohawks—

BLOUNT.
I know; you were saved by a stranger.
He escorted you home; called the next day, I hear.

MRS VIZARD.
But I soon sent him off with a flea in his ear.

BLOUNT.
Since that day the young villain has seen her.

MRS VIZARD.
Oh no!

BLOUNT.
Yes.

MRS VIZARD.
And where?

BLOUNT.
At the window.

MRS VIZARD.
You do not say so!
What deceivers girls are! how all watch they befool!
One should marry them off, ere one sends them to school!

BLOUNT.
Ay, I think you are right. All our plans have miscarried.
Go; send Lucy to me—it is time she were married.

(Exit Mrs Vizard by door to left of side scene.)
BLOUNT.
When I first took this orphan, forlorn and alone,
From the poor village inn where I sojourned unknown,
My compassion no feeling more sensitive masked.
She was grateful—that pleased me; was more than I asked.
'Twas in kindness I screened myself under false names,
For she told me her father had fought for King James;
And, embued in the Jacobite's pestilent error,
In a Roundhead she sees but a bugbear of terror.
And from me, Selden Blount, who invoked our free laws
To behead or to hang all who side with that cause,
She would start with a shudder! O fool! how above
Human weakness I thought myself! This, then, is love!
Heavens! to lose her—resign to another those charms!
No, no! never! Why yield to such idle alarms?
What's that fop she has seen scarcely once in a way
To a man like myself, whom she sees every day?
Mine she must be! but how!—the world's laughter I dread.
Tut! the world will not know, if in secret we wed.

(Enter Lucy by door to left of side scene.)

SCENE V.

Blount, Lucy.
LUCY.
Dear sir, you look pale. Are you ill?

BLOUNT.
Ay, what then?
What am I in your thoughts?

LUCY.
The most generous of men.
Can you doubt of the orphan's respectful affection,
When she owes ev'n a home to your sainted protection?

BLOUNT.
In that home I had hoped for your youth to secure
Safe escape from the perils that threaten the pure;
But, alas! where a daughter of Eve is, I fear
That the serpent will still be found close at her ear.

LUCY.
You alarm me!

BLOUNT.
I ought. Ah, what danger you ran!
You have seen—have conversed with—

LUCY.
Well, well.

BLOUNT.
A young man.

LUCY.
Nay, he is not so frightful, dear sir, as you deem;
If you only but knew him, I'm sure you'd esteem.
He's so civil—so pleasant—the sole thing I fear
Is—heigh-ho! are fine gentlemen always sincere?

BLOUNT.
You are lost if you heed not the words that I say.
Ah! young men are not now what they were in my day.
Then their fashion was manhood, their language was truth,
And their love was as fresh as a world in its youth;
Now they fawn like a courtier, and fib like his flunkeys,
And their hearts are as old as the faces of monkeys.

LUCY.
Ah! you know not Sir Sidney—

BLOUNT.
His nature I do,
For he owned to my friend his designs upon you.

LUCY.
What designs?

BLOUNT.
Of a nature too dreadful to name.

LUCY.
How! His words full of honour—

BLOUNT.
Veiled thoughts full of shame.
Heard you never of wolves in sheep's clothing? Why weep?

LUCY.
Indeed, sir, he don't look the least like a sheep.

BLOUNT.
No, the sheepskin for clothing much finer he trucks;
Wolves are nowaday clad not as sheep—but as bucks.
'Tis a false heart you find where a fine dress you see,
And a lover sincere is a plain man like me.
Dismiss then, dear child, this young beau from your mind—
A young beau should be loathed by good young womankind.
At the best he's a creature accustomed to roam;
'Tis at sixty man learns how to value a home.
Idle fancies throng quick at your credulous age,
And their cure is companionship, cheerful, but sage;
So, in future, I'll give you much more of my own.
Weeping still!—I've a heart, and it is not of stone.

LUCY.
Pardon, sir, these vain tears; nor believe that I mourn
For a false-hearted—

BLOUNT.
Coxcomb, who merits but scorn.
We must give you some change—purer air, livelier scene—
And your mind will soon win back its temper serene.
You must quit this dull court with its shocking look-out.
Yes, a cot is the home of contentment, no doubt.
A sweet cot with a garden—walled round—shall be ours,
Where our hearts shall unite in the passion—for flowers.
Ah! I know a retreat, from all turmoil remote,
In the suburb of Lambeth—soon reached by a boat.
So that every spare moment to business not due
I can give, my sweet Lucy, to rapture and you.

LUCY.
What means he? His words and his looks are alarming:
Mr Jones, you're too good!

BLOUNT.
What!—to find you so charming?
Yes; tho' Fortune has placed my condition above you,
Yet Love levels all ranks. Be not startled—I love you.
From all dreams less exalted your fancies arouse;
The poor orphan I raise to the rank of my spouse.

LUCY.
What! His spouse! Do I dream?

BLOUNT.
Till that moment arrives,
Train your mind to reflect on the duty of wives.
I must see Mistress Vizard, and all things prepare;
To secure our retreat shall this day be my care.
And—despising the wretch who has caused us such sorrow—
Our two lives shall unite in the cottage to-morrow.

LUCY.
Pray excuse me—this talk is so strangely—

BLOUNT.
Delightful!

LUCY
(aside).
I am faint; I am all of a tremble: how frightful!

(Exit through side door to left.)
BLOUNT.
Good; my mind overawes her! From fear love will grow,
And by this time to-morrow a fig for the beau.
(Calling out.)
Mistress Vizard!

(Enter Mrs Vizard.)

SCENE VI.

Blount, Mrs Vizard.
BLOUNT.
Guard well my dear Lucy to-day,
For to-morrow I free you, and bear her away.
I agree with yourself—it is time she were married,
And I only regret that so long I have tarried.
Eno'!—I've proposed.

MRS VIZARD.
She consented?

BLOUNT.
Of course;
Must a man like myself get a wife, ma'am, by force?

NEWSMAN
(without, ringing a bell).
Great news.

MRS VIZARD
(running to the window, listening and repeating).
What! “Lord Nithsdale escaped from the Tower.”
(Nithsdale peeps through the door of his room.)
“In his wife's clothes disguised!—the gown grey, with red flower,
Mantle black, trimmed with ermine.” My hearing is hard.
Mr Blount, Mr Blount! Do you hear the reward?

BLOUNT.
Yes; a thousand—

MRS VIZARD.
What!—guineas?

BLOUNT.
Of course; come away.
I go now for the parson—do heed what I say.
(Nithsdale shakes his fist at Mrs Vizard, and retreats.)
We shall marry to-morrow—no witness but you;
For the marriage is private. I'm Jones still. Adieu!
(Exit Blount.)

(Lucy peeps out.)
MRS VIZARD.
Ha! a thousand gold guineas!

(Locks Nithsdale's door.)
Re-enter Blount.
Guard closely my treasure.
That's her door; for precaution, just lock it.

MRS VIZARD.
With pleasure.

(As she shows out Blount, Lucy slips forth.)
LUCY.
Eh! locked up! No, I yet may escape if I hide.

(Gets behind the window-curtains.)
Re-enter Mrs Vizard.
MRS VIZARD.
Shall I act on this news? I must quickly decide.
Surely Nithsdale it is! Grey gown, sprigged with red;
Did not walk like a woman—a stride, not a tread.
(Locks Lucy's door.)
Both my lambs are in fold; I'll steal out and inquire.
Robert Walpole might make the reward somewhat higher.
(Exit Mrs Vizard.)

LUCY
(looking out from the window).
She has locked the street-door. She has gone with the key,
And the servant is out. No escape; woe is me!
How I love him! And yet I must see him with loathing.
Why should wolves be disguised in such beautiful clothing?

NITHSDALE
(knocking violently).
Let me out. I'll not perish entrapped. From your snare
Thus I break—
(Bursts the door, and comes out brandishing a poker.)
Treacherous hag!

SCENE VII.

Lucy, Nithsdale.
LUCY.
'Tis the wolf. Spare me; spare!

(Kneeling, and hiding her face.)
NITHSDALE.
She's a witch, and has changed herself!

LUCY.
Do not come near me.

NITHSDALE.
Nay, young lady, look up!

LUCY.
'Tis a woman!

NITHSDALE.
Why fear me?
Perchance, like myself, you're a prisoner?

LUCY.
Ah yes!

NITHSDALE.
And your kinsfolk are true to the Stuart, I guess.

LUCY.
My poor father took arms for King James.

NITHSDALE.
So did I.

LUCY.
You!—a woman! How brave!

NITHSDALE.
For that crime I must die
If you will not assist me.

LUCY.
Assist you—how? Say.

NITHSDALE.
That she-Judas will sell me, and goes to betray.

LUCY.
Fly! Alas! she has locked the street-door!

NITHSDALE.
Lady fair,
Does not Love laugh at locksmiths? Well, so does Despair!
(Glancing at the window.)
Flight is here. But this dress my detection ensures.
If I could but exchange hood and mantle for yours!
Dare I ask you to save me?

LUCY.
Nay, doubt not my will;
But my own door is locked.

NITHSDALE
(raising the poker).
And the key is here still.

(Bursts the door of Lucy's room and enters.)
LUCY.
I have read of the Amazons; this must be one.

NITHSDALE
(coming from the door with hood, gown, and mantle on his arm).
I have found all I need for the risk I must run.

LUCY.
Can I help you?

NITHSDALE.
Heaven bless thee, sweet Innocence, no.
Haste, and look if no back way is open below.
Stay; your father has served the king over the water;
And this locket may please your brave father's true daughter—
The grey hair of poor Charles, interwined with the pearl.
Go; vouchsafe me this kiss.

(Kissing her hand, and exit within the door.)
LUCY.
What a wonderful girl!

SCENE VIII.

The exterior of Mrs Vizard's house. Large window. Balcony, area rails below. A court. Dead walls for side scenes, with blue posts at each end, through which the actors enter.
Enter Blount.
BLOUNT.
For the curse of celebrity nothing atones.
The sharp parson I call on, as simple John Jones,
Has no sooner set eyes on my popular front,
Than he cries, “Ha! the Patriot, the great Selden Blount!”
Mistress Vizard must hunt up some priest just from Cam,
Who may gaze on these features, nor guess who I am.
(Knocks.)
Not at home. Servant out too! Ah! gone forth, I guess,
To enchant the young bride with a new wedding-dress.
I must search for a parson myself.

(Enter Bellair from the opposite side.)

SCENE IX.

Blount, Bellair.
BELLAIR
(slapping him on the shoulder).
Blount, your news?

BLOUNT.
You! and here, sir! What means—

BELLAIR.
My impatience excuse.
You have seen her?

BLOUNT.
I have.

BELLAIR.
And have pleaded my cause;
And of course she consents, for she loves me? You pause.

BLOUNT.
Nay, alas! my dear friend—

BELLAIR.
Speak, and tell me my fate.

BLOUNT.
Quick and rash though your wooing be, it is too late;
She has promised her hand to another. Bear up!

BELLAIR.
There is many a slip 'twixt the lip and the cup.
Ah! my rival I'll fight. Say his name if you can.

BLOUNT.
Mr Jones. I am told he's a fine-looking man.

BELLAIR.
His address?

BLOUNT.
Wherefore ask? You kill her in this duel—
Slay the choice of her heart!

BELLAIR.
Of her heart; you are cruel.
But if so, why, heaven bless her!

BLOUNT.
My arm—come away!

BELLAIR.
No, my carriage waits yonder. I thank you. Good day.

(Exit.)
BLOUNT.
He is gone; I am safe— (shaking his left hand with his right)
wish you joy, my dear Jones!

(Exit.)
(Nithsdale, disguised in Lucy's dress and mantle, opens the window.)
NITHSDALE.
All is still. How to jump without breaking my bones?
(Trying to flatten his petticoats, and with one leg over the balcony.)
Curse these petticoats! Heaven, out of all my lost riches,
Why couldst thou not save me one thin pair of breeches!
Steps!

(Gets back—shuts the window.)
Re-enter Bellair.
But Blount may be wrong. From her own lips alone
Will I learn.
(Looking up at the window.)
I see some one; I'll venture this stone.

(Picks up, and throws, a pebble at the window.)
NITHSDALE
(opening the window).
Joy!—the signal!

SCENE X.

Bellair, Nithsdale.
BELLAIR.
'Tis you; say my friend was deceived.
(Nithsdale makes an affirmative sign.)
You were snared into—

NITHSDALE.
Hush!

BELLAIR.
Could you guess how I grieved!
But oh! fly from this jail; I'm still full of alarms.
I've a carriage at hand: trust yourself to these arms.

(Nithsdale tucks up his petticoats, gets down the balcony backwards, setting his foot on the area rail.)
BELLAIR.
Powers above!—what a leg!

(Lord Nithsdale turns round on the rail, rejects Bellair's hand, and jumps down.)
BELLAIR.
O my charmer! one kiss.

NITHSDALE.
Are you out of your senses?

BELLAIR
(trying to pull up her hood).
With rapture!

NITHSDALE
(striking him).
Take this.

BELLAIR.
What a fist! If it hits one so hard before marriage,
What would it do after?

NITHSDALE.
Quick—where is the carriage?
Now, sir, give me your hand.

BELLAIR.
I'll be hanged if I do
Till I snatch my first kiss!
(Lifts the hood and recoils astounded.)
Who the devil are you?

(Nithsdale tries to get from him. A struggle. Bellair prevails.)
BELLAIR.
I will give you in charge, or this moment confess
How you pass as my Lucy, and wear her own dress?

NITHSDALE
(aside).
What! His Lucy? I'm saved.
To her pity I owe
This last chance for my life; would you sell it, sir?

BELLAIR.
No.
But your life! What's your name? Mine is Sidney Bellair.

NITHSDALE.
Who in Parliament pleaded so nobly to spare
From the axe—

BELLAIR.
The chiefs doomed in the Jacobite rise?

NITHSDALE
(with dignity).
I am Nithsdale. Quick—sell me or free me—time flies.

BELLAIR.
Come this way. There's my coach: I will take you myself
Where you will;—ship you off.

NITHSDALE.
Do you side with the Guelph?

BELLAIR.
Yes. What then?

NITHSDALE.
You would risk your own life by his laws,
Did you ship me to France. They who fight in a cause
Should alone share its perils. Farewell, generous stranger!

BELLAIR.
Pooh! no gentleman leaves a young lady in danger;
You'd be mobbed ere you got half a yard through the town;
Why, that stride and that calf—let me settle your gown.
(Clinging to him, and half spoken without.)
No, no; I will see you at least to my carriage.
(Behind scene.)
To what place shall it drive?

NITHSDALE.
To Blackwall.

Enter Lucy from the window.
Hateful marriage!
But where's that poor lady? What!—gone? She is free!
Could she leap from the window? I wish I were she.

(Retreats.)

SCENE XI.

Bellair, Lucy.
BELLAIR.
Now she's safe in my coach, on condition, I own,
Not flattering, sweet creature, to leave her alone.

LUCY
(peeping).
It is he.

BELLAIR.
Ah! if Lucy would only appear!
(Stoops to pick up a stone, and in the act to fling as Lucy comes out.)
O my Lucy!—mine angel!

LUCY.
Why is he so dear?

BELLAIR.
Is it true? From that face am I evermore banished?
In your love was the dream of my life! Is it vanished?
Have you pledged to another your hand and your heart?

LUCY.
Not my heart. Oh, not that.

BELLAIR.
But your hand? By what art,
By what force, are you won heart and hand to dissever,
And consent to loathed nuptials that part us for ever?

LUCY.
Would that pain you so much?

BELLAIR.
Can you ask? Oh, believe me,
You're my all in the world!

LUCY.
I am told you deceive me;
That you harbour designs which my lips dare not name,
And your words full of honour veil thoughts full of shame.
Ah, sir! I'm so young and so friendless—so weak!
Do not ask for my heart if you take it to break.

BELLAIR.
Who can slander me thus? Not my friend, I am sure.

LUCY.
His friend!

BELLAIR.
Can my love know one feeling impure
When I lay at your feet all I have in this life—
Wealth and rank, name and honour—and woo you as wife?

LUCY.
As your wife! All about you seems so much above
My mean lot—

BELLAIR.
And so worthless compared to your love.
You reject, then, this suitor?—my hand you accept?

LUCY.
Ah! but do you not see in what prison I'm kept?
And this suitor—

BELLAIR.
You hate him!

LUCY.
Till this day, say rather—

BELLAIR.
What?

LUCY.
I loved him.

BELLAIR.
You loved!

LUCY.
As I might a grandfather.
He has shielded the orphan;—I had not a notion
That he claimed from me more than a grandchild's devotion!
And my heart ceased to beat between terror and sorrow
When he said he would make me his wife, and tomorrow.

BELLAIR.
Fly with me, and at once!

LUCY.
She has locked the street-door.

BELLAIR.
And my angel's not made to jump down from that floor.
Listen—quick; I hear voices:—I save you; this night
I arrange all we need both for wedlock and flight.
At what time after dark does your she-dragon close
Her sweet eyes, and her household consign to repose?

LUCY.
About nine in this season of winter. What then?

BELLAIR.
By the window keep watch. When the clock has struck ten
A slight stone smites the casement;—below I attend.
You will see a safe ladder; at once you descend.
We then reach your new home, priest and friends shall be there,
Proud to bless the young bride of Sir Sidney Bellair.
Hush! the steps come this way; do not fail! She is won.
(Exit Bellair.)

LUCY.
Stay;—I tremble as guilty. Heavens! what have I done?